


well said

by anstaar



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ivan goes on an unwanted quest and gets waylaid (for the prompt: Ivan, trolls)</p>
            </blockquote>





	well said

On the second day of the blizzard, Ivan took up his sword and traveled to the mountains. This was not his choice. His choice would’ve been to pull out the spiced brandy and to sit around the fire telling funny stories to fill up time until the snow melted enough for them to return to court. True, it was late in the year for such a fierce storm but stranger things had happened, especially this near to the mountains, for reasons completely unrelated to the workings of the spirits. Besides, even it was the spirits, had had never seen a point in attempting to interfere with their choice of temperatures, however inconvenient some found them. It wasn’t his choice, though. Miles, his infuriating, genius, spirit cursed cousin, had been left twisted and shaking from the pain of the rampant magic in the storm looking both younger and older than Ivan had ever seen him. He hadn’t needed his mother’s sharp words or Elena’s piercing stare to know what he had to do.       

Ivan set out firmly, despite the blasting winds and whirling snow. He had his cloak and hat and sturdy boots stuffed with his thick wool socks (which matched his thick new woolen underwear; curse all Royal Seers and Aunt’s gifts). He kept his knife tucked under his tunic to keep the steel from freezing and pretended the howling wind was a bard singing the tales of his heroic deeds for a continually ungrateful cousin. He was walking straight up into the mountains, towards the highest peaks where the Winter Spirits lived and fought all year long.   

Two days after he had set out, Ivan got lost. He couldn’t understand how it had happened. The snow was deep but his legs were long and strong and he had found a good stick with which he tested the snow drifts ahead to make sure that none were too deep. The snow came down fiercely and got into his eyes but it was a mountain and he was sure that he been going up. He realized he was lost when, peering between his cupped hands to shield his eyes from the snow, and saw that the shape of the rising peaks ahead of him were wrong.

Ivan had spent a childhood scrambling after his cousin across the foothills of the mountain. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the experience but it was their land and he knew it as well as he knew the streets of the capitol (rather better, in fact, as he tended to be drunk on his more elaborate explorations of the capital). The sharp crag they had always called Matvey’s nose was nowhere in sight. Neither were the deceptively easy looking foothills where he had broken an arm.

The shock made Ivan forget his footing. He stumbled and slipped backward into a pile of snow. He beat his arms wildly as the covered his face, hoping to swim up, but he kept going down until he cracked his head on a rock. He lay there, head pounding, choking on the snow with his knife and icy fire against his chest struggling desperately until it all went dark.

Ivan woke up in a cave. His stomach was sloshing unpleasantly (barely masking the burning hunger, jerky was not enough to sustain a man and it felt like weeks since had even had that) and his head pounded, radiating fire from the back of his skull, but otherwise he felt much better than he had expected. He hoped he wasn’t dead. If his head hurt this much in the afterlife, someone was going to pay. He opened his eyes a crack but the swimming blur only resolved itself into the dank grayness of a cave wall. He felt, however, pleasantly warm and the smell of a fire made him almost sure that it wasn’t from frostbite. He turned his head slightly to the left, firmly ignoring the spinning sensation and saw his outer clothes drying above a merry fire. He also saw his hosts.   

Ivan knew about trolls. The lived in the mountains and could perform great magic and possibly didn’t actually eat human flesh. As a child, he had listened to Miles’ grandfather’s tales of the twenty years war and the friendship he had forged with several of the Troll Queens. His rescuers didn’t look like Queens. The smaller one, which was no large than Miles when he stood his straightest and only twice as wide as a grown man, almost faded into the cave wall except for its glittering eyes, which shown like fragments of ice. The other was taller than the Emperor and four times as wide (maybe four and a half times, Gregor was far too thin) but shared the same inhuman gaze.

Ivan knew he should get up: to run, to bow, to make a desperate grab for his knife. On the other hand, he was still alive for the moment and he would prefer to remain that way. Besides, he had yet to manage to move his legs. He suspected that the larger troll knew this, he would swear that it was smiling (could trolls read minds, that had never shown up in the stories), but it was the smaller one who spoke first.   

“Greetings, human, I am glad to see that you have awakened from your long slumber. Do you suffer any lasting pains from your sojourn in the ice?” The voice was surprisingly soft, though raspy.

“I am fine,” Ivan assured it, trying not to smile at the formal words, “I give my thanks to you.”

“Enough,” rumbled the other troll, “if our strength was not enough to cure the small damage the cold caused your human frame then we would have much more to worry about then the sprites petty squabbling. I am Brynja,” it – she – continued, shifting her body towards Ivan, “that one is my companion, Stigr. We found you drowning in our cousins’ snow and brought you here to rest. There is no need for thanks, for a grandchild of prince Xav we would do much more.” She settled back, having said her piece and now content.

“None the less, I still give my thanks,” Ivan replied, trying to keep his tone formal. There was no point in wondering how they knew about his grandfather. “I am Lord Ivan of Vorpatril house, sent to check upon the doings of the Winter Spirits which have brought this could down upon family lands.” The last bit didn’t sound quite right but he wasn’t the one who spent hours reading ancient books.

Again, it looked as if Brynja was smiling. “You will have to tarry a while with us, Patril Vor, my cousins’ tempers have been greatly roused. There will be no traveling on this day nor on any other soon to come. Share our fire and hear our tales. If we must wait for very long you might even share the tale of why a human felt such a great need to seek out the spirits in weather that is so harsh on your flesh.”

Ivan considered saying no. He thought that it might be the right thing to do. He could still see Miles’ crumpled form, trembling from the pain (Miles, who hated to show any sign that he could be hurt or need help) but then he could also hear Miles’ voice calling him an idiot for freezing to death after such a narrow escape the first time. The entrance to the cave was protected by an overhand and troll magic but he could still see outside and the snow was piled higher than his shoulder. “I accept your kind offer,” he said, quietly choosing sense over honor, “My personal honor is due to you.”

“No trouble has befallen us,” Stigr assured him, “it is good to have new tales to fill up the long winter days.”

They spent four days together. Eating moss and snow rabbits and sharing stories. It was almost a mockery of Ivan’s dreams (and there wasn’t a touch of mead to be found) but he held in heart a little, shameful, relief that he had not had to face the capricious spirits by himself. Midway through the fourth day Brynja finished her story of the ice queen and gestured towards the entrance.

“The snow has stopped, Patril Vor, our cousins’ anger has abated. You may depart.” It was an abrupt dismissal but it was soften when both the trolls escorted him down, through the melting snow, to the easier trails where he recognized where he was and could make his own way. He headed homeward with their almost fond farewells echoing in his ears and his shoulder aching where Brynja had clapped him on the shoulder. He wondered how exactly he was going to explain his venture.

(He ended up not having to offer any explanations. As it turned out, Elena had carried Miles up to the peak of the mountain. There, alone, they had dealt with the spirits on their own terms, leading to a fraction throwing their allegiance behind Miles’ banner. Of course, this was treason against the emperor. The whole state of affairs did not improve his mood, especially as he was ordered to go back up the mountain after them, but that was a different story)


End file.
